Scenes From One Dad’s Foxhole

Birthdays mean things. At 16 you get your driver’s license. And for awhile, and also for the only time in your life – you think its cool to drive a ’81 Volkswagen Rabbit. A beige one with a stick shift that only takes diesel. Bad ass, I know. At 21 you get to over pay for beers at the bar. And nothing says adulthood like paying more for something you could have done on your own with a little patience and planning. Nothing really special happened on my 30th. I was already married and had a kid so turning 30 just seemed like a day. On my 40th Mom and I had a party since we both turned 40 within a month of each other. We had a local place make us a couple big trays of barbecue while one of our friends brought over burnt ends. And listen, after several beers, that stuff is quite possibly the greatest food you’ve ever tasted.

Anyway, I recently turned 47. Which really isn’t anything special. Doesn’t feel any different from any of my other recent birthdays. Aside from Mel Blount wearing #47 and being responsible for the NFL rules changes that allow the modern passing game, it isn’t an especially great number. I was, however, pretty damned determined to kick 47’s ass.

So we made some plans with some good friends. They picked us up and we drove back to their house. Why? The key advantage of the location of their house is that you can walk to the bar. A place called Taco Hangover. At 3:00 in the afternoon. On a Friday. So, two things:

1-I’d like a little appreciation for our mature decision to not drive. To not even have a vehicle at the bar.

2-Taco Hangover puts a laxative in its tacos.

Not sure how that makes for repeat customers but somewhere in their business model is a flow chart on how to make tacos and it includes a laxative. Soft flour tortilla, chicken, stool softener/bowel stimulant, shredded cheese, etc. The catch is that their tacos are awesome. Seriously. Bacon, egg and cheese tacos. Kansas City burnt ends tacos. Chorizo and crispy potato tacos. They even have sloppy joe tacos. And listen, the tacos need to be awesome because you can’t get Miller Lite Tall Boys on the patio. I know, I’m sitting there wondering if we’re in communist Russia or a bar in red, white and blue middle America…that sells laxative laden tacos. Regardless, you did read that correctly. No Miller Lite tall boys. How the hell does that happen? Friday afternoon ice cold tall boys on the patio is about as midwest American as you can get. The really infuriating thing was that if I wanted to – although I can’t imagine a scenario in which this would happen unless it gave me the power of invisibility – I could get Pabst Blue Ribbon in a tall boy. I’m just spit ballin’ here but nobody really wants extra PBR. Nobody. And that’s what you get in a PBR tall boy. Because of the outright and inexcusable lack of proper fridge stocking, I was forced to consume Coors Light. In a tall boy. And by forced I mean I wasn’t. I could have had a normal regulation size draw of Miller Lite in the typical plastic cup required on patios. But everybody else, including Mom at one point, is drinking tall boys and I’m not sure if you realize this, but tall boys have more beer in them. Again, just spit ballin’ here but you know who likes more beer? Everybody.

So as the day wears on and we have various conversations, including my agreeing to go a Flo Rida concert with Mom, we order tacos. And a continuing flow of beers. And, I’m not necessarily proud – or ashamed – of this but we put those away faster than Billy Idol was pumping fists in the Flesh for Fantasy video.

Mom tapped out first. Got ride home from a friend. About an hour later, I was done. Was about ready to get in the same friend’s car as she had recently arrived back at the patio after dropping Mom off and the taco effect suddenly become apparent to me.

So I did what anybody else would have done. I bombed the bathroom.

Then I went home. Upon my arrival I ask Mom how she’s doing – and just for reference sake it was still light out – and Mom informs me that she bombed our bathroom.

While we both felt pretty damn good afterwards, the effect of the beers hadn’t been evicted from our systems. It was about this time that Kinz comes into our room and asks if her friend – a boy – could come over for a few hours. My answer? “Sure.”

Her response? “Ok, but you’re going to have to talk to his Dad when he drops him off.”

My response to that? “Ummm…you should ask Mom to do that.”

From the bedroom we hear, “No she shouldn’t!”

So it’s up to me to somehow behave like a responsible parent so this kid isn’t banned from our house because I wanted to kick 47’s ass.

Short while later – and after another visit or two to the bathroom – the kid and his Dad are at our door. We introduce ourselves. And then…

“Hey so I need to go through my whole deal here since we haven’t been to your house before.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Any alcohol in the house?”

I sorta tilted my head slightly and said, “Yeah…but they’re not going to drink any of it.”

“Any firearms in the house?”

I’m thinking, sure okay, this is a legit question. I guess I could be Bob Lee Swagger. I might be slamming beers while I make my own ammo out back.

“Nope, no firearms.”

“Any explosives in the house?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean military, commercial or recreational?”

No I didn’t really say that. But I’d never been asked – ever – if there were any explosives in my house. Do people stock explosives? I’m not counting fireworks. Where do you even purchase them if you were to stock them? Because if this is a thing, I kinda would like to know that too.

And listen I get the first question. I’m not going to ask it because I’m assuming it to be true in nearly every house in America. I also understand the second question. And maybe I should be asking that too. Maybe we all should. Or maybe we shouldn’t. Alcohol and firearms aren’t illegal. Often dangerous when used in concert but not illegal.

But even weirder than the questions was I’m answering them after spending the last 5 hours at the bar drinking Coors Light tall boys while eating laxative tacos talking about going to the Flo Rida concert.